


Keep Your Feet

by CloudAtlas



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Central and South America, F/M, Illnesses, Non-sequential, POV Natasha Romanov, Pining, Sexual Content, backpacking, ballerina Natasha Romanov, travelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-01-30 16:10:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21431008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/pseuds/CloudAtlas
Summary: “Hey, d’you mind if I sit here?”Natasha blinked down at her guidebook, needing a couple of seconds to register that she understood those words. That someone was, in fact, speaking to her in English. She looked up.He was around her age, seemingly sky-scraper tall, with a crooked grin and a crooked nose and a grubby Corona Extra t-shirt. He was holding a cup of coffee and every other table was taken. She shouldn’t have been irritated that she’d been interrupted, but she was.Natasha gestured at the free chair opposite her, indicating that he was welcome to sit but she wasn’t in the mood for talking. The guy took the hint about the chair, but not the talking.A backpacking-though-the-Americas AU.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 178
Collections: Charity Hawktion 2019





	Keep Your Feet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kalika_999](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/gifts).

> Written for kalika_999 as a birthday gift from PP who won me as part of the Charity Hawktion. I was supposed to finish this sooner, but Life Happened. Beta'd by **inkvoices** (who gets extra love and appreciation this time for squeezing this in between work commitments). Title and quote from the Lord of the Rings.
> 
> ...
> 
> “It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road and, if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.”

The waterproof clippers came from lost property, because people leave all sorts of shit in hostels, but Natasha took scissors as well because… Clint hadn’t had his hair cut in _a while_.

“C’mon.”

Clint hesitated. “That’s the men’s bathroom.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “I’m well aware. Get inside.” She placed the stool she’d borrowed in one of the cubicles and gestured for Clint to sit at her feet. It would be easier, that way, and she pretended that was the only reason. “C’mon, we don’t have all day.”

Clint sat.

It _was_ easier. She didn’t have to look at his face, at his knowing eyes that saw too much. Instead she was faced with his golden shoulders, dusted with freckles, and his unruly mop of terribly cut hair. He’d probably done it himself at some point. She knew he didn’t have money to get it done by a professional. He didn’t even have the money to pay for hostels, most of the time.

That’s why she’d agreed to this. She’d cut his hair and, in return, he had to allow her to pay for him to stay a night in this hostel. It had been raining for two days and she didn’t even want to hazard a guess at where he’d been sleeping. She also didn’t want to think too hard about why she cared.

She pointed the shower head at his hair, soaking him, and only watched the rivulets of water cascading down his back for a second before she started with the scissors.

It was meditative, somehow. Clint sat so still, so calmly between her legs, arms ‘round his knees. And his shoulders were so broad, so tanned, and watching the water run over them was mesmerising. And every now and again a stubborn clump of hair wouldn’t run off him down the drain and she’d have to brush it away, swiping hair and water over soft, warm skin.

She found herself sinking into it, so intent on the clippers in her hands and the hair under her fingertips that she only peripherally noted the surprise of the guy who walking in on them thinking the cubicle was empty only to find a _girl_ in there and cutting some dude’s hair to boot.

She might have run her hands through Clint’s hair a couple more times than necessary, when she was finishing up. She might have spent a little too long making sure there was no residual hair clinging to his sun-kissed shoulders. But she stopped eventually.

And then it was just her in a shower, sitting with Clint between her legs.

“Done,” she said, ignoring completely how quiet her voice sounded, how intimate. “Hope that’s okay.”

Clint was slow to respond, sluggish like he’d been far away and the sound of her voice was only just enough to draw him back. He ran a hand through his hair, scattering droplets like rain, before turning around, his smile tentative and small.

“Thanks.” His voice was church-quiet, barely audible over the sound of the adjacent showers. She only really caught what he said because she was watching his mouth.

His eyelashes were clumped with water. Natasha looked away quickly.

“Take the clippers back to lost property, okay?” She stood abruptly. “I’ll return the stool.”

She could feel Clint’s gaze, heavy on her back, as she left.

“Look,” Clint said suddenly, voice hushed and hand hard around her elbow. “There, see?”

He pointed at the trees.

“What?”

They were only about ten metres behind the group they’d tagged onto for this jungle tour, on some mud track in southern Colombia that she probably wouldn’t be able to point to on a map. It was humid and stifling and so green, and Natasha had managed to tick three animals off her ‘want to see’ list just this morning: glass frogs, scarlet macaws and a whole family of capybara. There was something amazing about being among these trees, for all that every item of clothing she was wearing was stuck firmly to her skin with sweat. It filled her up; a kind of ecstatic peacefulness, or violent joy or… a _oneness_ with everything. It was sappy and awful, but she couldn’t stop smiling.

And now, this.

“There, can you see?”

Clint’s breath tickled her ear and she could feel the heat radiating off his skin. He smelled strongly of clean sweat and soil from when he’d fallen crossing a stream. He had muddy knees and a sunburnt nose and he had a heliconia bloom that he’d found broken on the floor tucked behind his ear. He looked ridiculous.

“What?” she whispered back. “What am I looking at?”

“Can’t you – ?” He ducked to her level and frowned and Natasha was struck all over again by their considerable height difference.

His strong arms were suddenly around her waist – “Brace yourself” – and she found herself lifted up.

“See that branch? That super straight one? And along, and back a little. You see?”

Natasha searched and tilted her head and –

“Oh!”

The strangely sad face of a sloth peered back out at her from between the leaves.

“Oh my god, _Clint_.” Natasha wasn’t proud of the fact that she’d practically _squealed_ but it was _a sloth. _“How did you even see that?”

Clint shrugged. She felt the movement of his shoulders against her lower back. He really was surprisingly strong.

“Good eyes,” he replied, like it was nothing, like the tour guide hadn’t been looking for sloths the entire day. “Quick, take a photo. I gotta put you down soon.”

So Natasha fumbled with her tiny compact and snapped as many pictures as she could before she could actually feel herself sliding down Clint’s front as his strength failed.

“Christ,” Clint grunted as he put her down, “ballerinas sure are heavy, eh? C’mon, let’s catch up before they send out a search party.”

And Natasha was too happy to snap at him that she wasn’t a ballerina any more, to get angry at the thought off so many wasted years. She’d seen a _sloth_.

“Come here, idiot,” she said, grabbing Clint’s arm before his could start down the track once again. She straightened the heliconia and then, almost without her say-so, rubbed off a splash of dirt high on his collar bone. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“What changed?” Steve asked her on the one night stop in Chiquimula, on their way to Honduras and the ruins at Copan.

They’d agreed to travel together at least as far as San Jose in Costa Rica, a decision made yesterday by Clint and Bucky, much to Steve and Natasha's surprise. From there, Steve and Bucky were flying to Caracas while Clint and Natasha were planning to continue overland to Panama. Natasha was unreasonably excited to see the Panama Canal, something that baffled Clint no end.

“What do you mean?”

Steve shrugged. “Up until Guatemala City Clint kinda hated Bucky, and now they’re joined at the hip.”

They both looked over to where Clint was trying to throw Cheetos into Bucky’s mouth.

Natasha shrugged, mirroring Steve. “No idea. Maybe getting shitfaced and passing out in the TV room of a hostel is Clint’s version of initiation.”

“That how you two met?”

Natasha thinks of the skinny beanpole who’d just started chatting to her in a café in Córdoba, the day she’d arrived in the city. How he’d kept popping up where she was until she’d started actively looking for him. The face he’d pulled when she said that she was moving on. The face he’d pulled when she suggested he come with her.

“No,” she said.

Natasha still did her stretches. She still did the morning routine she’d perfected aged nine. Even here, thousands of miles from any stage she’d ever danced on, she maintained that. The strict diet was gone and she hadn’t worn makeup or plucked her eyebrows once since she’d left Russia, but that routine had survived. It made her feel like herself, more than anything else. And she still felt that same thrill she’d felt aged five when she’d first managed to do the splits. She valued that flexibility independently of its benefits to dancing.

Plus the splits always made for a great party trick. Like being en pointe.

“Guys must fucking love you,” Valkyrie had said after she’d seen Natasha put her left foot behind her head in the hostel courtyard one night.

“Huh?”

“Thank of all that athletic sex you could be having.”

Valkyrie gave her a shark grin that made it crystal clear that it wasn’t just guys who would appreciate Natasha's flexibility.

Natasha shrugged. “_They_ also have to be fairly flexible for that to actually work. Or at least have, you know, stamina.”

“Oh,” Valkyrie said, sending her a significant look that Natasha refused to properly parse, “I don’t think you’d have trouble finding that.”

Natasha ignored her, instead watching Sharon, who was sat on Clint’s back, trying to dislodge Maria, who was sat on Carol’s back, and failing miserably. Next to her, Valkyrie cackled unattractively.

Natasha still kept up with her morning stretches though, even on those mornings when she’d convinced Clint to stay the night in a hostel. He’d be curled up in her bed (because actually _paying _for another bed was a step too far for Clint, the fucking cheapskate) hair every which way. She’d wait until their shared dorm was empty – or at least until everyone not hungover had gone to breakfast – before she’d run through her routine, one, two, three, and pretend she couldn’t feel the exact moment he woke up.

“Hi, I’m Bucky and this is Steve.” The guy held his hand out and Natasha took it automatically, unwilling to admit that his smile was cute but caught in the spell regardless. “We’ve just arrived. Any good recommendations?”

“Buck likes clubs,” the other guy – Steve – cut in.

“And Stevie likes art and ancient monuments,” Bucky tacked on.

“Clubs don’t like me.”

Steve was like Bucky’s mirror; short to Bucky’s tall, blond to Bucky’s dark, skinny to Bucky’s gym muscle. They had the easy confidence of lifelong friends.

“Why don’t clubs like you?” Clint asked. Clint _towered_ over Steve. It was kind of funny.

“Okay,” Steve amended, “_clubs_ like me fine, girls in clubs don’t.”

“And guys in clubs like him too much,” Bucky added with a smirk.

“I might be mouthy,” Steve conceded, failing to look contrite.

“And whatever the opposite of a twink magnet is.”

Steve elbowed Bucky for that, but didn’t actually contradict him.

“Buck, on the other hand, attracts fucking everyone.”

“I _am_ very magnetic.”

Bucky’s tone was smug but his eyes practically sparkled with amusement and Natasha couldn’t help but laugh at their banter.

“I’m sure we can find you both something to occupy your time. Have you been to Chiapas?”

“Is that a club or an ancient monument?” Bucky asked.

Natasha shot him a smile. “Ancient monument, sorry. We can find you a club though, I’m sure.”

“Eh, I’ll live.” Bucky flapped his hand then tilted his head to one side. “You been?”

“Not yet.” Natasha was planning to coerce Clint into going just before they left on Tuesday. She’d wanted a bit of a break from ancient Mayan cities after the trek that was Tikal.

“You want to come with us?”

Natasha grinned, enjoying Bucky and Steve’s uncomplicated enthusiasm. “Sure.”

“Tomorrow then,” Steve said with a nod, like he expected it to be adhered to, no questions asked. “But first, I’m going to shower. And you,” he poked Bucky in the chest, “are going to do laundry, else I’m never sharing a room with you ever again.”

“Nag, nag,” Bucky fired back with a smile as they both turned to leave the common room. “Meet you later to work out timings, yeah? Also, find me a club,” Bucky called as he was leaving, and Natasha grinned and nodded in agreement before turning back to Clint.

Who was scowling at Steve and Bucky’s backs.

“What?”

Clint scowled harder, his eyes cutting away to fix on the scarred table top.

“_What_, Clint?”

“’m I included in this?”

“In what?”

“Chiapas,” he bit out.

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Of course, idiot. I was gonna take you on Tuesday anyway.”

Clint’s scowl lessened, but didn’t let up entirely.

She wasn’t sure where Clint slept: she just knew he had a shabby tent in his backpack held together with duct tape and hope. She didn’t really want to think about what that meant. She already knew he had very little money, but she disliked being constantly reminded of the fact, especially when she had such trouble getting him to accept any help from her at all. It would be a good week when she could persuade him to accept one night in a hostel with her. It was a good _day_ when she was permitted to buy him a meal.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew he was a thief. You couldn’t spend almost five years homeless – and she knew he was homeless – without becoming a thief. He tried to hide it but she’d seen regardless. Fruit taken from market stalls, soap from supermarkets, half-finished meals left out on tables in that Schrödinger’s time between the customer leaving and the waitress arriving. Plus, he had the plant-in-the-dark look of someone who’d grown too much with too little food; rangy, almost gaunt.

He was the only man she’d ever met who looked _younger_ when trying to grow a beard. It came in patchy, uneven, and made him look fifteen. Clean-shaven and his cheekbones were razorblades and his jawline was all man.

He stole razors too, she knew.

“If you could be any animal,” Clint asked one night, the Milky Way spread wide across the heavens, “which would you pick?”

She’d worn feathers once. An uninspired production choice, all things considered, but understandable. She’d worn feathers and a tulle skirt and her pointe shoes had been the most pristine white, not a spot of blood inside or out. She’d felt like she could _fly_, just jump up, legs perfect, and be borne away by the wind.

That’s what it was like. Dancing, before. Like an orbit, caught between falling and flying perpetually.

But you put a swan on land and they’re not all that elegant. And if you nudge something out of orbit, even just a little bit, they either drift away or fall.

She’d worn feathers, once.

“An elephant,” she said, saying the second animal that she could think of, because she’d spent her whole life wanting to be a swan and that dream had broken her. Plus, elephants _remember_.

Clint’s sharp look told her so many things, but he didn’t press. He leant back on his hands instead, tipped his face to the sky.

“I’d be a raccoon,” he said, his grin vicious.

“You’re basically a raccoon already,” she replied, thinking of his tent pitched under bridges, of his quick hands stealing food.

“Yeah, but that way I wouldn’t need the backpack.”

At no point did Natasha tell her aunt and uncle that she was travelling with Clint.

She wasn’t sure why. They’d feel more comfortable knowing that she was travelling with someone else now. They hadn’t exactly been happy to let her go off on her own for a year, regardless of the fact that they’d let her. Plus, he was kind and courteous, in his own way. But she just… didn’t mention him. She left him out of her daily messages, the compromise of letting her travel solo, and never video called when he was around; the messages home a careful structure built around the spaces he occupied. It was stupid, so stupid, but she did it anyway.

(She did know why she never said, though. She knew from the beginning. He was her secret; he was _hers_.)

“They’re teaching salsa,” Clint said in Piura, “at El Gecko. Fifteen sol. We should go.”

She’d danced salsa before. _Before_. Hips and chest and cheeks pressed close. She imagined his hands on her hips, the hot sunshine smell of his skin. He was so much taller than her. It would be – too much.

“I don’t dance,” she replied, curt. She was sure even Clint could hear the unspoken _anymore_.

Clint just nodded. He didn’t ask again.

The bed was too small, but they were always too small, and though she had never cared before she _really_ didn’t care now, because Clint was so close. Anticipation make her breath shallow, made her skin feel too tight and there was a feeling of inevitability to the way Clint turned to her, their faces inches apart thanks to the narrow mattress. To the way Clint said, “_Natasha_,” like she was something important and incredible. It hooked something deep within her chest and _pulled_, and Natasha opened her mouth to reply but only air escaped.

“Is this – ?”

“Yeah,” she said. And then, “_Yes_.”

Clint’s mouth slid over hers like it was the only way this could go.

He smelled like sweat and rain and hostel sheets. His hair was too long and his hands rough and he was like none of the guys at the studio – too rough, too unconcerned, too _open_. Sometimes when she looked at him it was like staring into the sun; as though if she stared too long she’d go blind. She didn’t know what it was, didn’t understand what he did that made him feel so inevitable, like they’d been dancing around each other all this time.

And – ha, _dancing_.

And now here they were: the collision.

Clint’s hands slid around her waist, pulling her closer with a clumsy eagerness that had Natasha moaning into his mouth. It was too hot for this really, humidity in the nineties and no A/C, only an ancient, whirring ceiling fan, but now she’d had a taste she wasn’t going to stop. Instead, she jammed a leg between his, his arousal heavy and hot against her thigh, and pressed herself _closer_, hands sliding along his back, sweat slicking his skin and making real purchase hard.

“Shit.” The word was hot against her lips. “Fuck, Natasha.”

She bit his lips, buried her hands in his hair, rolled them until he was heavy above her. And then she bucked up, hard.

Clint whined, high and heady in the back of his throat.

“I’ve got – ”

“Yeah,” she said again – panted really – before he could even finish. “Clint, _yes_.”

Their backpacks were by their feet – all their belongings in the bed with them, taking up room, because that’s how you kept your shit safe while travelling. She didn’t want to think about why he might have condoms with him, or who else he might have slept with on this slow crawl through the Americas, she was just grateful he had them at all because it meant they didn’t have to _stop_.

They wrestled each other out of their clothes, the tight space of the top bunk calling for an athleticism Natasha had long gotten over Clint possessing. She had only a moment to marvel at that last unseen expanse of his skin (and since when had she been taking note? Since when had she been _looking_?) before he rolled the condom onto himself and pressed into her.

The last guy she’d slept with felt like an age ago – before this trip, before the injury, before _everything_ – and she’d done it for no better reason than because he’d been there and she’d needed release. She’d forgotten this; how it felt when she _wanted_ it. How bright and close and electric. It was like bright lights and wild applause and the perfect grand jete, like everything she’d lost, and she clung to it, to _him_, to the feeling of his lips on her skin and his hands on her breasts and him heavy inside her.

And then the door slammed open, bouncing off the wall.

They both froze, panicked and wide-eyed, as an obnoxious voiced called, “ – and tell Gerry he can fuck right off, it’s my fucking tequila, okay? He better not – fuck, where is it, where is it? Isla! Where’s the fucking – _no,_ what the hell, are you kidding? Did you fucking _steal_ the – ? Oh shit, oh thank Christ, _I’ve found it guys!_ I’ve found it, it was hidden in the – ” before the door slammed shut again.

Clint’s eyes were wide and sky blue. “What the _fuck_?”

Oh, the perils of having sex in a shared dorm in a motel in São Paulo.

Clint broke first, laughing hard into her neck until she could help but join in, shaking with relief and left-over adrenaline until he shifted his hips and she was made blindingly aware of him still hard inside her.

Natasha let out a surprised moan and tightened her legs, and Clint looked down at her, happy and bright.

“Fucking tourists,” he said, his expression mischievous like all he wanted was to make her happy, and her answering laughter turned to a moan as he moved.

They were outside the Cathedral of Quito when Natasha heard it, like a tug in her chest. _Carry Fire. _It was like a fucking Pavlovian reaction, how she turned towards it. Helpless, almost. It wasn’t the music that made her fall in love with ballet – and how could it be, really? She probably couldn’t even name that music; she’d been too young, though she remembered seeing _The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy,_ six years old and orphaned and doubtful of ever being happy again. No, this was different, this was –

This was _it_. It was the high and low of trying for the Bolshoi rolled into one.

This had been the music she’d auditioned to – or one of the pieces. She’d wanted something contemporary, something fresh, something _memorable._ So she’d danced ballet to Robert Plant growling over sitars and cellos and almost failed to get in. It wasn’t in the ‘spirit of the Bolshoi’ and, though her dancing was undoubtably flawless, it ‘lacked a certain respect’. She’d gotten in, obviously, but on her technical strength, on her Vivaldi and Tchaikovsky. Something small and important had been smothered that day. She could see that now.

Oh, but how she’d loved that routine, though she’d almost forgotten about it. The memory repressed to spare her heart. But here it was again, unfolding in her head as the sitar line spiralled out into the warm Ecuadorian skies.

Clint didn’t notice her stopping, not at first, walking two paces further on before realising he’d lost her. By then she’d drifted closer to the buskers – a sitar player, cellist, and percussionist; their guitarist sitting by with still hands. There was an itch in her feet and, for the first time in months and months, Natasha wanted to _dance_. Dance how she used to, with poise and deliberation and years of acquired elegance. So Natasha stepped into the open space in front of the buskers and did just that.

She danced.

It took only one step, not thinking too much about what she was doing or how many people were watching – how _Clint _was watching – for her entire routine to come flooding back. Muscle memory ensured that every step she’d dreamt up and practiced and perfected as a precocious fourteen year old fell perfectly. Here, in ratty sneakers and under the endless blue skies of South America, Natasha finally felt that joy she had believed so fervently that the Bolshoi would give her.

It felt like flying, more being than Odette in her feathers had ever done.

“You could teach, you know,” Clint said out of the blue. “It wouldn’t be the Bolshoi or whatever, but you’d be dancing.”

Something in Natasha recoiled at the thought of settling for anything less than her dream, even if that dream was now hopelessly out of reach. But she couldn’t deny she’d been thinking about it. Ever since the club in Lima where Clint had finally persuaded her to dance salsa. Maybe even since Córdoba.

“What about you?”

Clint shrugged. “I got no marketable skills.”

“You could learn some,” Natasha pointed out, because that sort of defeatist attitude was almost an anathema to her. “What d’you like? Make a job of it. It’s easy.”

This time Clint snorted. “Yeah, for you.”

Something dark and angry coiled in Natasha’s gut. Because it wasn’t easy, of course it wasn’t _easy._ It was bleeding toes and not eating enough and never making proper friends because it was always, always, _always_ a competition. She knew that. But _he_ knew that too – he _knew_ that – and he said that anyway because he, he… He’d given up, before even trying, he’d given up. And maybe he had been taught no better but it made her so angry regardless.

She forced the feeling down, tried to be better. She’d made a friend; she didn’t want to lose him.

“Teach Spanish,” she said, pulling the first thing she could think of out into the air. “Become a scout leader, help little kiddies pitch their tents, work for a fucking travel agent. Jesus Clint, you’ve travelled all over South America, you know a fuck ton.”

There was a strange formless anxiety clawing at her chest; Clint could give up completely, fade into the back alleys of some middling Colombian town and she’d lose him, she’d _lose him_.

“Hell, become a counsellor; help kids dealing with bad shit, give ‘em a home so they don’t end up traipsing around South America with no money and a stolen tent! Just _do_ something, Clint!”

Clint didn’t rise to the bait though, didn’t lash out like Natasha wanted him to, didn’t get angry. He just gave her an unimpressed look. “Can’t help kids with their shit if you’ve never worked through your own.”

The fact that was the first time Clint had actually admitted to her that he was messed up was completely overtaken by an immense, almost irrational anger.

“Then you fucking _try_,” Natasha snarled. “You work out what needs fixing and then you _fix it_ and you practice and practice and practice until you’re better, until you’re better than anyone else. And you show up all those smug fucks who said you couldn’t and you fucking _fly_. You put in the hours. You put in the hours and you get to the fucking top and push and push and push, and you fucking fall off the stage and break your fucking leg, and everything falls out from under your feet and you fucking _pick yourself back up again._” Her breath came out in pants and she was almost shaking. “You take stock, fucking adjust and _keep fucking going_.”

Natasha scrambled to her feet and looked down at Clint’s long tan legs and sun-bright hair, needing so desperately for him to want for himself, because he felt so vital to her now but spending the rest of her life wandering aimlessly around the Americas was not something Natasha could do. She needed a goal, something to work towards, because that was all she’d ever known. But she needed him to need that too, or the mirage of a future she was just starting to see would dissipate and she’d be left exactly where she’d been when she first landed in Mexico City; frustrated and bitter and angry at the world.

Clint had never once explained how he’d ended up here, never once, but he’d quoted _The Lion King_ to her late one night – like an olive branch, or an apology. _When the world turns its back on you, you turn your back on the world_.

“It wasn’t the world that turned its back on you, Clint,” she spat out, angry and needlessly cruel. “It was _you_.”

And she stalked away.

“You can’t tangle your future up in one person,” Clint said, three days of silence later. “It’s not fair.”

“I know,” Natasha replied, chastised. “I’m sorry.”

Clint sighed and looked out over the cobbles of the town square. “Probably should listen to Rafiki more that Timon though.”

The silence stretched between them like glass.

“You know,” Natasha said eventually, “Rafiki means friend in Swahili.”

Clint’s expression was broken open. “Yeah?”

Natasha couldn’t find Clint. They’d agreed to meet at nine like they had every day but he hadn’t turned up and that was so unlike him that she wasn’t sure what to do. She didn’t even know where he was staying – what park or beach or underpass he’d pitched his tent because he was too fucking proud to let her pay for a bed for him – and now it was nearing half past ten and she didn’t know what to do.

He’d looked a little off yesterday. What if he was ill somewhere? What would she do? She wasn’t even sure how health care and hospitals worked in Colombia. But none of that would matter if she couldn’t find him.

She searched for two hours. Eventually she discovered him in a bit of untended parkland, behind a half rotted outbuilding, only noticeable because of his garish orange and purple tent. He didn’t answer when she called him, so eventually she gave up trying to be subtle and just unzipped the tent flap, accidentally ripping off a whole strip of duct tape which was holding a great gash in the side shut.

She was greeted by the sight of a sweaty Clint, wrapped in an ancient sleeping bag, face screwed up against some unknown pain and flinching away from light and contact.

“Clint?” Her voice was shaky and weak, worry bleeding through so strong it dripped with it. “Hey Clint, wake up.”

He didn’t.

Natasha's palms itched, worry and adrenaline with nowhere to go crackling under her skin. She didn’t know the number for the emergency services here and she was fairly sure hospitals charged, but Clint was clearly _not okay_. That alone was enough to seriously worry her but then it suddenly occurred to her that… What if he couldn’t continue on? She hadn’t fully contemplated the idea of travelling on without him before now but she found the idea instinctively repellent.

She zipped up the tent, hesitating only for a moment before running back to the hostel.

“My friend is ill,” she gasped out between ragged breaths. “What do I do?”

The guy behind reception – Antonio, if she remembered correctly – looked startled for a moment, before gathering himself and quizzing her, first on Clint’s condition and then on Clint’s financial status. They were joined by Dulce and Felicia and Amy-from-Manchester, who talked over each other in an ever-louder cacophony before Natasha finally snapped and yelled, “_Guys_,” in a tone of voice she belatedly realised was infused with every ounce of fear she’d been telling herself she didn’t feel.

“Banner,” Antonio said immediately into the silence. “American gringo in La Estrada. Wife works at PUJ. He’s a doctor.”

“Not that kind of doctor,” Felicia cut in.

“_Yes_, that kind. He works at a clinic in Ciudad Bolívar. Helped that dumb American girl with her _problem_ last year, remember? Didn’t charge. My buddy Miguel knows where he lives. I’ll get him to take you.”

Miguel, when he turned up, was no taller than Natasha, which resulted in the problem of how to manhandle six-foot-something Clint into the taxi Natasha had hailed. They bundled all of Clint’s stuff into the trunk, with Miguel promising to take it all back to the hostel until Natasha could pick everything up. The smell was a bit much, but there wasn’t much they could do about that. Maybe if she gave Miguel some extra money, he’d get it all washed for her.

Doctor Banner was a middle-aged American who looked almost_ exactly_ what Natasha would have expected a beleaguered lecturer to look like. She was honestly surprised that such a man would willingly hang out in Colombian slums treating victims of guns and sexual violence. But he moved with the kind of calm confidence that only years of practising emergency medicine could bring and within two minutes of Miguel and Natasha dragging Clint to his doorstep, Bruce had Clint in his spare room, his wife Betty bringing a first aid kit and bottles of water while Bruce took Clint’s heart rate and temperature and various other measurements.

“Malaria,” Bruce finally pronounced, his stethoscope around his neck like a cliché. “Has he been taking anti-malarials?”

Natasha gave him a helpless look. The answer was that Clint had probably never thought to and probably couldn’t afford them even if he had. Natasha had them, tucked into her washbag, and had been taking them religiously every week like she was supposed to, but that was more because her aunt would kill her if she contracted a preventable disease than any real belief that they were essential.

But here were Clint’s glazed eyes and flushed skin saying otherwise.

“I can pay,” Natasha said desperately, the only response she could think of.

Bruce fixed her with a calculating look.

“He’ll need to stay in bed for a week or so, can you make that happen?”

Honestly, no, Natasha couldn’t, and something to that effect must have showed on her face because Bruce sighed and rubbed his hand across his eyes.

“Okay,” he said eventually. “He’ll stay here. You’re welcome to as well, if you’d rather. If you have money to cover the drugs, that would be great, and if you could help with cooking and cleaning that would also be appreciated.”

Bruce gave her a sharp look. “Nothing of real monetary value is kept here and neither are any drugs stronger than paracetamol, so don’t get any ideas.”

Natasha nodded.

“I’ll ask Betty to make up a room for you while I go to the clinic.”

Natasha nodded again. Bruce was standing now, but Natasha couldn’t quite bring herself to turn with him, to lose sight of Clint in even her periphery.

“He’s going to be okay, Natasha.”

And, without quite meaning to, Natasha replied, “He’d better be.”

Natasha eyed the four girls from where she was sitting. They’d only turned up yesterday, freshly on their gap year or post-college holiday or _something_ and taking every opportunity to get outrageously drunk. They were loud and boisterous and _loud_ and Natasha didn’t mind them, not really, but they had a kind of magnetism that meant people seemed to just fall into their circle and Natasha didn’t want to give them that satisfaction.

Clint had been laughing with them for an hour or so now. She’d managed to coerce him into staying with her this time, the hostel cheap enough that his pride wasn’t knocked too hard. She’s not regretting it – it’s raining pretty heavily – but Carol, one of the new girls, had latched on to him a little while back and that fact made Natasha uncomfortable.

Carol seemed… a little too free-spirited, a little too excited for the lack of parental oversight, or whatever had been holding her back before. She drank like a fish, and her hands wandered. She and Valkyrie – and _what a name_, seriously – had already been raucous and singing bad karaoke before three this afternoon and it had only gotten worse from there, the two of them being egged on by other people at the hostel, and by their friends Sharon and Maria. And by Clint.

Now they were sprawled across a booth in the common room, puppy piled in the way that only drunk people could, touching entirely too much, and Natasha wasn’t drunk enough to not want to break Carol’s hand every time she clapped Clint on the shoulder at a particularly bad joke.

“Nat!” Clint called, excited. “Tasha! They’ve been to Machu Picchu! They met Steve and Bucky in Caracas! Isn’t that cool?”

Clint’d also had too much to drink. Natasha scowled at him.

“That’s great, Clint.”

“Cheer up, kiddo,” Sharon said, appearing as if my magic at her side. “Have a drink.”

“Fuck off.”

Instead of being insulted, Sharon just laughed and bought Natasha another drink herself.

“None of us are trying to steal your man,” she said when she brought it over. “Most of us are too gay for that shit anyway. Calm the fuck down.”

Natasha scowled harder and Sharon rolled her eyes, leaving her alone.

When Natasha woke the next morning it was to find that Clint had never come to bed. Instead, she found him passed out in the common room, face smashed into Valkyrie’s stomach, with Sharon curled up under a table a few feet away and Maria and Carol nowhere to be found.

She might have slammed the door extra hard when she left. Maybe. It was a very heavy door.

The stars blazed here, a flood of light Natasha was utterly unused to. She could understand why people in ages past worshipped the stars. She felt like doing it now. She also felt as though she could reach up and tear the stars out of the sky, drape herself in them, wear them as jewellery. Fuck the swan feathers, her Odette would outshine _everyone_.

“I feel like I’m falling,” Clint said from where he was lying beside her.

Natasha stared at the sky some more.

“Falling where?” she asked eventually, a full two minutes too late.

From the corner of her eye she saw Clint wave his hand vaguely at the blazing stars.

“Up.”

Natasha gave this the proper thought it deserved but she was soon distracted by the press of cool grass beneath the wings of her shoulder blades and the statement slips out of her head.

They’d been to a club called Cinco de Mayo in downtown Guatemala City, which Bucky had heard about from someone at their hostel. It had been tiny, with a grotty bar and bodies packed way too tight, the heat inescapable, but that hadn’t stopped either Clint or Natasha drinking far more than sensible. They’d lost Steve and Bucky sometime after two AM and had yet to find them, their search efforts only managing to get them as far as this park before Clint’d decided that lying down was a better option.

“I think,” Natasha said suddenly, jerking Clint from whatever doze he’d fallen into.

“What?” Clint asked, and Natasha had to scramble to remember what she’d been saying.

“I think,” she started again. “I think they’re _fucking_.”

Clint thought about this.

“Who?” he asked eventually.

Natasha, who had been playing with the hem of her dress, startled. “Who what?”

“Who are fucking?”

“Oh. Steve and Bucky.” Duh. It was clear that they weren’t, like, _boyfriends_ or anything, not yet anyway, but they definitely got naked together. She could _tell_.

“Really?” Clint sounded incredulous, which made Natasha laugh, doubled up and on her side, forehead pressed into Clint’s upper arm. She could smell the warm skin of him. And grass. Mostly she could smell grass. But also him. His skin was warm under her forehead, so she pressed harder against it, shuffling until her body was curled foetal tight against his side. Distantly she was aware that she shouldn’t fall asleep here, here in a park in Guatemala City. They’d probably get shot, or raped, or beaten up. It wasn’t clever. But her eyelids were heavy and Clint was warm and her body didn’t want to move.

She wasn’t sure how long they lay there before Clint jerked and sat upright, as though he’d suddenly become aware of exactly where they were and how stupid it was to stay. He gently coaxed her upright and steered her on stumbling feet back to their hostel, where they found Steve and Bucky curled around each other like kittens on the beanbags in the TV room.

Clint and Natasha stared at them for a moment before Clint stated, grandly, “_I_ think they’re fucking,” and Natasha laughed so hard her legs collapsed under her.

“Hey, d’you mind if I sit here?”

Natasha blinked down at her guidebook, needing a couple of seconds to register that she _understood_ those words. That someone was, in fact, speaking to her in English. She looked up.

He was around her age, seemingly sky-scraper tall, with a crooked grin and a crooked nose and a grubby Corona Extra t-shirt. He was holding a cup of coffee and every other table was taken. She shouldn’t have been irritated that she’d been interrupted, but she was.

Natasha gestured at the free chair opposite her, indicating that he was welcome to sit but she wasn’t in the mood for talking. The guy took the hint about the chair, but not the talking.

“Congratulations on finding the best coffee place in Córdoba,” the guy said. “Plus, their pastries are to die for. I’m here every morning.”

Natasha ignored him.

“You just arrived?” he asked after a few beats of silence.

Natasha looked up from her guidebook, her annoyance at being interrupted _again_ at war with the need to know _how_ he knew that.

“Yes,” she said eventually.

“Thought so.” The guy grinned. “Your clothes are too clean. Clint Barton.”

He stuck out a hand to shake. Natasha stared at it until he gave up and wrapped it around his coffee again. Natasha returned to her book.

“Hey,” Clint Barton continued after a moment, clearly undeterred by her reticence. “Have you been to Capilla de San Cristóbal Mártir yet?”

Natasha looked up again, impressed despite herself at the quality of Clint’s Spanish and intrigued at the mention of the chapel. She hadn’t come across it in her guidebook of things to do in Córdoba and Clint talked about it as if it was a must see. Plus, Saint Christopher: patron saint of travellers. Sounded like she should go, just for that.

“No.”

Clint looked happier than necessary at getting a response from her.

“Oh, you gotta. It’s just – ” He gently pulled her free map of Córdoba from under her guidebook, smoothing it out and pointing. “Here. It’s kinda amazing. Teeny-tiny but full of this insane art. Plus Father Alejandro is super nice.” He passed her map back and Natasha expected him to offer to take her, something that would immediately put her on high alert, but instead he just said, “It’s open ‘til sundown, just take a couple of peso for the charity box.” He eyed the straps of her top for a moment then added, “And maybe a scarf to cover your shoulders. Catholics, you know?”

“Okay,” Natasha replied, eyeing Clint sceptically but willing to trust him for now. She’d check with her hostel if this Capilla de San Cristóbal Mártir was legit when she got back tonight, and then maybe check it out tomorrow morning. It wasn’t far.

Clint grinned wide, took a final gulp of his coffee and stood. “Cool. Tell Father Alejandro hi from me if you go.”

He was two steps away before Natasha spoke.

“Hey, do you know somewhere with cheap good food?” Just because she had money didn’t mean she wasn’t going to be sensible.

Clint’s grin was more pleased than the question warranted. “Sure! Margarita and Pablo’s Taco Truck on Parque de 21 de Mayo. You can’t miss it. And if you need cheaper than that, the mission near San Sebastian on Calle 9 is great.”

“Thanks.”

As she watched Clint’s retreating back, she wondered how it was that a clearly-American guy barely pushing twenty had come to know where to get free food in Córdoba, Mexico. And how it was he could tell she spoke English. And how long he’d have had to live here to speak Spanish that well, though she supposed he could just be from a Spanish speaking part of the US.

She shrugged to herself, bringing her gaze back to her guidebook as she lost sight of Clint in the crowd. She’d been planning to visit the Ex Hacienda San Francisco Toxpan while she was here and as many museums as she could fit in (there was a Coffee Museum!), but those were all day jobs. Today she just needed something to fill an afternoon.

Coming to a decision, Natasha took a last sip of her coffee before collecting her bag and guidebook and heading back to the hostel. She’d pop into that cute looking shop she’d passed on the way here and, once at the hostel, she’d ask about Capilla de San Cristóbal Mártir. Couldn’t hurt. And hey, if it was good, maybe she’d come back to this café, see if Clint was there again. Maybe he’d have other suggestions.

“He’s going to be alright, you know,” Betty said as she handed Natasha a cup of tea – the sort of tea Natasha hadn’t had since leaving Russia. “Bruce is good at what he does.”

“I’m not doubting Bruce,” Natasha all but snapped, worry making her far more short tempered than she’d ever normally allow herself to be, especially to someone like Betty, who had been nothing but kind. She felt bad for a split second, but covered her discomfort by taking a sip from her cup.

She didn’t apologise.

There was a short silence before Betty hummed and leaned back in her chair.

“So,” Betty said after the silence had stretched into uncomfortable. “How long have you two been together?”

Natasha attempted to loosen her death grip on her mug. It was malaria, she reasoned with herself. It was malaria and it was treatable and Clint would be okay. “Since Mexico.”

Betty made a small sound and something in that noise made Natasha tense, made her turn to face Betty properly. “What?”

It was clear that Betty was trying to school her features to appear more neutral, but she wasn’t that good at it and surprise remained etched clearly across her face. It was strange. Four months was a totally reasonable amount of time to have known someone.

“I just – ” Betty started before cutting herself off, clearly rethinking her approach. “Nothing. Sorry. It’s just… you act like you’ve known Clint for ages, and I’d just assumed that you’d been friends before you arrived, rather than meeting here.”

Worry made Natasha suspicious and she couldn’t help biting out a, “Why?”

Betty smiled, and there were layers and layers to that smile that Natasha didn’t have the energy to puzzle out. But understanding was there, she could tell that much.

“It’s nothing bad, Natasha,” Betty said, eyes and voice gentle. “It’s clear you care about him, that’s all.”

Care about him.

The phrase stuck with Natasha, despite it being completely innocuous. But Betty didn’t _mean_ anything by it (did she?) so it was fine. It was perfectly acceptable to sit by a sick friend’s bedside. Perfectly understandable to watch for the flutter of his chest and worry about the sweaty flush of his skin. If she lingered in his room, it was through concern – and that caught-by-gravity feeling she associated with the perfect grand jeté; that hook beneath her ribs when she realised she wasn’t flying, and physics had remembered her after all.

But that was perfectly understandable, because he was a friend.

“Holy crap, look who it is!”

Clint’s voice was loud and several people on the street gave him reproachful looks before returning to whatever they were doing. One head didn’t turn back however, although it took a moment for Natasha to recognise Bucky now, tanned as he was with almost chin-length hair.

“Barton! What the hell!?”

Despite the fact that Natasha had known that Steve and Bucky were aiming for Buenos Aires, she hadn’t expected to actually run into either of them here. She and Clint had returned to the city to plan their next move – there were international flights out of Buenos Aires, internet and Russian and American consulates, and various other things that seemed it prudent to be close to, if not actually needed – but apparently they’d timed it perfectly. Natasha had learnt that you rarely saw people again when travelling, so those times when people reappeared were unexpectedly precious.

“What the fuck is this?” Clint asked, grabbing Bucky’s hair as soon as they were close enough. “You going for the hobo look?”

“Fuck off, Barton,” Bucky laughed, swatting at Clint’s hand before leaning in to hug him. “How have you two assholes been?”

“Good,” Natasha replied, giving him a hug. “You?”

She directed this question at Steve, who was grinning but hanging back with a brunette woman Natasha didn’t recognise.

“Awesome,” Steve replied. “This is Peggy by the way. We met her on our trip to Machu Picchu.”

And so began the rounds of, ‘what have you been up to?’ and ‘where have you visited?’ and ‘Bucky why the hell did you let Steve climb Machu Picchu? Did you want him to _die_?’ and it wasn’t until they were holed up in a booth in what Bucky said was the best bar in the city that Natasha perhaps leaned too close to Clint, or something, and Bucky exclaimed, “Mother_fucker_,” far louder than appropriate.

“What?”

“You fuckers! You did it!”

“Did what?” Clint asked, honestly confused.

“_It_,” Bucky said, flapping his hands between the two of them. And it shouldn’t have been enough, it was vague and undefined and not at all an explanation, but Natasha immediately _knew_, and she couldn’t stop the pleased blush that crawled across her cheeks.

“Oh,” Clint said, completely unconcerned. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Bucky threw up his hands as if he’d had a personal stake in their relationship, crowing like a maniac, while beside him Steve grinned.

“Congrats guys,” Steve said. “When’d that happen?”

Natasha looked over to Clint, and she could see what he was thinking, as if it was written in bold across his face. They didn’t have a beginning so much as it was like twilight, happening in the background far longer than anyone realised. But also –

“São Paulo,” Natasha said, unwilling to elaborate further.

“What?” Incredulity coloured Steve’s voice and his eyes were huge. “You got all the way to _Brazil_ before shit happened?”

“Hey fuck you,” Clint said easily, draping an arm across Natasha's shoulder in a move she refused to think of as smooth. “Can’t rush perfection.”

Bucky buried his face in his hands. “Jesus, that’s awful.”

“So how’d you actually end up with these two?” Natasha asked Peggy, deciding that they’d talked about her and Clint enough now.

“Steve attempted to fight an Australian who decided to comment on my breasts.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Of course he did.”

Some of Natasha's sponsorship money was still good – it was always useful to be attractive and competent – so it was never really that likely that she would run out of cash on this trip. Between that and her aunt and uncle, she could practically do whatever she liked. It was one of the reasons it bothered her so much that Clint _wouldn’t let her pay for things_. It was no skin off _her_ nose.

He let her pay for more things, now. His tent hadn’t been used in… a while.

So in Buenos Aires she’d bought a car – it was crappy, but Clint turned out to be handy with cars so she wasn’t really worried – and they’d just started driving south; through Santa Rosa and Bahía Blanca and into the Pampas, the landscape becoming more spectacular as the temperature dropped. For the first time in weeks Clint’s tent made a re-appearance, the two of them huddling together in mismatched sleeping bags, their ‘front door’ overlooking river and lakes and miles of barely habited land, flat and expansive and stretching to mountains in the distance. In an ideal world, Natasha wanted to make it to Patagonia and then Tierra del Fuego, but the further south they get the more she became aware of just how ill-suited to these temperatures Clint was. He had no cold weather clothes – he barely had _cool_ weather clothes – and she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him in anything other than flip-flops, something she remembers their guide in Colombia being horrified by: “¡No puedes entrar a la selva tropical con chanclas!”

Natasha had never become quite so familiar with the sight of someone’s knees.

But Clint insisted.

“Patagonia at least,” he said. “Mountains!”

As if neither of them had been to Peru, to Ecuador.

They made it to Neuquen, six hours out of Viedma, before Natasha called it.

Seasons meant very little in the tropics, basically boiling down to ‘more rain’ and ‘less rain’, but Argentina stretched into temperate and it was nearly June now. Clint could cope with a lot, but Natasha didn’t want to let him – had never really wanted to let him, if she was honest with herself. She’d got him a fleece lined coat in Bahía Blanca, raided lost property in various hostels for shoes and trousers, but at night now Clint’s feet wold press cold against her calves, and Natasha didn’t want to go to Tierra del Fuego as much as she wanted Clint to be happy and comfortable.

“Time to go north again, I think,” she said, looking over the city from their vantage point in the surrounding hills.

“We don’t have to,” Clint replied awkwardly after a moment. “We could keep going.”

His nose was red. He’d refused her offer of another jumper in Neuquen and Natasha regretted not forcing him now.

“You’re freezing, Clint,” Natasha pointed out. “Going on would be stupid.”

“I’m okay.”

His reply was hurried and Natasha suddenly caught a note of desperation there, as if he was worried that… What? That this was it? That them being together – not just travelling, but _this_, this _fitting_ that Natasha had never even realised she needed – would last only as long as the land? As the journey south? Did he – did he not _understand_? Did he not know that she had been making lists in her head, planning routes and budgeting and, and _everything_, wondering, _worrying_ how to ask, how to keep this going?

It felt as though Clint’s desperation was catching, like she’d been bitten and now, now suddenly all those thoughts she’d been keeping a bay were clamouring to get out, to be made known.

“Clint,” she said, helplessly, “it’s not – I’m.” She took a deep breath, let it out slow, swallowed down her sudden rising panic. “We can go wherever – wherever you want. Where do you want to go?”

Clint shrugged, hands open as if casting for answers, eyes wide and mirroring her unease, her desperation. “I. Wherever. Wherever you are.”

Natasha smile bloomed so hard her cheeks hurt. She felt sky-tall, filled up and breathless.

“Yeah?” Her voice was soft and full of joy, and she saw something in Clint’s shoulders melt.

“Yeah, Natasha, yeah.” He shrugged again. “Of course.”

“Cool,” she replied, inanely, cheeks aching with happiness. “Amazing. Yeah. North then?” Clint nodded, eyes bright, his hand reaching for hers. “And then, how d’you – what do you think about Europe?”

“Hey,” Clint said, some six weeks after San Juan, holding out some very familiar hair clippers. “Do you – would you mind?”

Natasha wanted to say _did you steal them?_ She wanted to say _surely that haircut wasn’t that good?_ She wanted to say _don’t make this a habit_. But instead, she closed her hand around the clippers and nodded, once.

**Author's Note:**

> [Carry Fire by Robert Plant](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9nNHMu0-jW8). A sufficiently weird song to do ballet to. No wonder the Bolshoi were sceptical.


End file.
